Holy Death Page 14

  Getting dark. Sunset over the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe his last one, right? The way things were going...

  Why not end it the same way Ginny did? Walk out into the Gulf and keep going, let it wash over him. That would be dignifying. The sharks might have at his body, the forces of nature might fuck up what was left royally before he washed back ashore, but he wouldn’t have known it. Some poor fucking cop would be responsible for cleaning up the mess. Some weak-stomached patrol officer would discover pieces of Lafitte and projectile vomit into the sand. Lafitte would be the dignified one. He would take a big drink of seawater and lose consciousness and the last thing he would hear is water.

  He should have known the angel on his shoulder would get outvoted by the devil, who told him: Not until DeVaughn is dead.

  Lafitte sighed. It hurt to sigh. The devil was right, even if Lafitte didn’t want him to be.

  “Five minutes,” he told the fat kid. “You’re going to be alright, buddy.”

  Highway 90. Beachfront. A beautiful summer evening. A wailing kid missing an ear in the backseat.

  Better a missing ear than a missing head. He’d seen worse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The call from Lo-Wider was all wrong and the kid was smart enough to realize DeVaughn would know it, too. The tone, the pitch, the words themselves. Too formal. Too...something. A weird feeling.

  DeVaughn told him where they could meet in Gulfport, the parking garage of the casino hotel. He hung up and thought about how to prepare. Either Lafitte had Lo-Wider as a hostage, or had flipped him over to his side. Didn’t matter. This thing was going to happen now, and DeVaughn wasn’t going to do the James Bond villain shit of talking so much that Bond escapes and murders his ass. They made fun of it so much, who was it, Austin Powers? And still, motherfuckers always got to toy with James Bond instead of just shoot his ass.

  Not this time. Billy Lafitte ain’t no motherfucking James Bond. Never was, never will be.

  They sat in the parking garage, in the new Lincoln MKZ they’d picked up at a rental joint. White one. All the extras. Still no connection between them and the dealership in Mobile, so as far as the rental place was concerned, they would get the car back in about five days, as soon as DeVaughn and Melissa “flew back home” from their vacation.

  DeVaughn grinned thinking about it. The rental joint would never see this car again. DeVaughn wouldn’t be flying anywhere anytime soon. Melissa, god only knew what would happen to her. Prison? Or would she call the whole thing a kidnapping, big nigger forced me? That was okay, too. Whatever she had to do, he’d back her up. Whatever it took to keep her free. She was worth it. This whole day, if it ended with Lafitte dead and DeVaughn in true love with Melissa, will have been worth it.

  He looked over at Melissa, one leg propped on the dash, the other stretched on the floorboard. Her seat was reclined some. She held her arms over her head, a yawn and a stretch. She caught him looking and smiled. Beamed.

  She said, “Can I come out and say it? You don’t have to say it back or get all weird.”

  “What?”

  “Like, you don’t have to treat me any differently, or think I’m expecting something.”

  “Girl, I love you, too. How’s that?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, great, now you’re going to be all up on my jock all the time? I can’t be tied down.”

  “But baby, baby please—”

  Hand in his face. “Uhn-uh. You need to be there when I give you a call, but that’s the extent of it.”

  They both cracked up. DeVaughn tried one more, “I promise, baby, I’ll be good.”

  Melissa threw her head back and it was a full-on cackle. This was fun. When was the last time he’d been with someone and it was fun this way? He shook his head. “Can you tell me what’s going on with us?”

  “Well, didn’t you say so? I was going to say, too. I love you. I mean it. I love you.”

  “Yeah, I know, right? But it’s only been a day. One day. Have you ever...you know, seriously, not a little somethin’ somethin’, but real full-on love?”

  Melissa shrugged. “Maybe once or twice. But it wasn’t like he felt the same way. This time, you do.”

  “So what is it? What’s going on? Are we crazy?”

  She moved closer, head on his shoulder. “I remember this guy, a youth pastor or something, telling me love is a verb. It’s something you do. People try to think about it too much, you can think yourself out of it because the devil or the world makes you selfish. But love is something, when you do it, you want to keep doing it. It’s a muscle.”

  “I can dig it.”

  “Really? You can ‘dig’ it? How old are you?”

  “Quit it, bitch, you know what I’m saying.”

  “You and me, we were into each other right away. We fucked, and it was awesome, and we fucked some more, but even when we’re not fucking, you make me laugh, and we can talk about boring stuff, but it’s not boring. And when I kill somebody, you’re okay with it.”

  “Not at first.”

  “But you are now, right?”

  “Hey, I understand. We’re Bonnie and Clyde on this thing.”

  “Dang, that’s so old.”

  “But you know who I’m talking about. I should show you that movie, with Warren Beatty—”

  Melissa pretended to fall asleep. Loud snore.

  “Okay, okay, you win.”

  She laughed. “I’ve seen it. I saw it already. I’m not that young.”

  Then they were both quiet. The sun had sunk a little lower, and the orange was going red and purple. The lights were blinking on in the garage. They both knew there were around ten BGM soldiers hidden among the rows. More cars coming in than going out. It was dinner time for the retirees. The buffet awaited them. DeVaughn would’ve appreciated some himself right then. He would’ve admired Melissa as she ate. A real turn-on, watching a girl with a big ol’ juicy ass enjoy a good meal. But not until this was over. And probably not even then.

  He said, “I wished we had met some other time. I really do.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “You know what’s going to happen next.”

  Getting too dark to read her face in the rearview. “You’re going to kill Billy Lafitte.”

  “I wish it was that easy. He won’t stand still while I do it.”

  “It’s going to be loud, I bet.”

  “He can’t get out of here this time. Lots of firepower. And when it’s over, Motherfucker be dead.”

  “And so will those soldiers. And maybe me or you.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “But you know. You know how Bonnie and Clyde ended up, is what you’re trying to say here, ain’t you?”

  DeVaughn felt chill bumps. Felt a lump in his throat. He couldn’t picture Melissa dead. He remembered those car dealers dead on the floor. No, she couldn’t end up like that.

  He asked, “No chance of you getting the hell out of here, is there? Get far away from what’s about to go down? I’ll come find you. I promise.”

  “Thought you said Bonnie and Clyde?”

  “Jesus, baby.”

  She squeezed tighter. “We kill him together. We get killed together. We escape together. I don’t care. We stay us. We stay us, no matter what.”

  “I won’t let you take the fall.”

  “Why not? You in jail, me in jail. I’m still your bitch in jail, you know. We’ll get out one day. We don’t have to be in the same room for it to be true love.”

  “Can’t let you go.”

  She lifted herself from the seat, turned and kissed his cheek. “Then when the time comes, you’d better kill me, too. I’d rather today be my last day if you try to set me free while you go down.”

  “Baby—”

  Another kiss, closer to his lips this time. Almost full dark outside except for the fluorescents. She kissed him. Wet, full, desperate. He gave it back to her twice as much. One more kiss before Billy Lafitte showed up to end this thing. DeVa
ughn would have to thank the piece of shit first. Without Lafitte, he’d have never met the love of his life.

  And then he’d shoot Billy Lafitte in both his motherfucking eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Time made sense again once the docs began weaning Rome from the drugs. The pain was real but not overwhelming. He’d started to make words again. It was hard, but he sounded them out and forced his tongue and mouth to shape and push out syllables. He could ask for “water.” He could ask for “TV news.” He could ask for “Gillian,” the cute nurse who reminded him of Desiree a little and who didn’t look away when he struggled to speak and drooled all over himself to make himself understood.

  Jesus! It was worse than living without Desiree, without his job, without having captured Lafitte. His leg, gone, yet still itched. His hands, fucked up, curling in on themselves. His nerves, alternating between “on fire” and “numb”, made him feel as if this was an alien body. As if it had never been his to begin with, and he didn’t understand the controls.

  Day after day. Weeks. How long since Stoudemire had been here? He had no idea. Felt like ages, but was probably only yesterday. He couldn’t keep the framework intact. He would hear the date on the news and then forget it. He would look out the window and realize it was still summer, at least.

  Lost in time. Lost in space. Where had he heard the line before?

  So he couldn’t say exactly how long it was before Stoudemire appeared at his bedside again, another pair of khakis and a golf shirt, another perfect head of spiky, bleached-tip hair. Legs crossed, an iPad resting on his thigh.

  That fucking grin. “You’re coming along, I hear? They say you can talk again?”

  “Fffffff—”

  “Don’t strain yourself. We’ll take it as it comes. But you’ve probably already guessed what you and Wyatt were doing was doomed from the start. Not to speak ill of the dead, but seriously, how was he going to help? This was Rock-and-Roll Fantasy Camp for you two idiots.” He leaned forward, eyes darting around. He hoarsely whispered, “You want to know the rest, right? I think it might put your troubled mind at ease.”

  Was it really over? Had Stoudemire been able to pull it off? No fucking way. No fucking way. Rome had scoured the news, asked the nursettes to leave it on Fox News all day, knowing if Lafitte had really been taken down, it would show up there at some point, sensationalists that they were on Fox. Of course Lafitte wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead and he wasn’t in jail. What was it Stoudemire was hiding?

  Rome cleared his throat, said, “Tell. Me.”

  “Hey, not bad. You’re going to be fine, you are. It’s really a load off—”

  “Tell. Me.”

  A nod.

  Rome settled on his pillow, looked at the ceiling tiles and light fixtures. He cupped one hand over the other on his stomach, wishing he could interlace his fingers. Something so simple, something he’d never had to think about before.

  “I told you about Ginny Lafitte already, didn’t I?”

  Rome didn’t move. Of course Stoudemire had already mentioned it. Shoved it in his face. He wanted Rome to feel guilty. It wouldn’t work. Even without Rome interfering back then, Ginny Lafitte was already riding the suicide train. He had seen the ticket in her eyes, bought and paid for.

  “We watched it all on security footage, everything except the final act, the murder itself. He parked a stolen motorcycle nearby, walked right into the facility, found a package to carry with him, fooled people into thinking he was a delivery guy, rode the elevator with several doctors and nurses, staring at their phones. He knew exactly which room Ginny was in, and he passed the package off to a nurse who, if she’d only been a little more curious, might have realized this ‘delivery man’ was all wrong, completely wrong.” Stoudemire shook his head. “I mean, that’s the rub of this job. We’ve seen it so many times, you can’t help but get frustrated. It all adds up to trouble, but they can’t see it. They only see pieces of it. Afterwards, we can’t see the pieces without seeing the whole, where these idiots, they’ll never see the whole. They’ll never be curious enough. Knowing now what the nurse knows, even knowing that, she would still never see the whole picture.”

  It was hard to say, but Rome was determined: “Nah...nah...Oo. O. Nah-o. Lek-church. No lectures.”

  “I wasn’t lecturing, buddy. Can’t we discuss our operational philosophies? You know, the one I have actually works, based on years of experience, testing, and wisdom, and yours, which apparently relies on putting other people in danger to satisfy your own sick obsession?”

  Don’t say her name.

  “Like Desiree?”

  The lunge surprised Rome. It surprised Stoudemire, too. The look of pure fucking terror. Stoudemire shoved the chair back all the way to the wall in one slide. Rome was half-off the bed, twisted in wires, still reaching for Stoudemire, who was shouting for the nurses. It hurt like a motherfucker all over again, as if all his bones were snapping in twos, threes, and fours, but didn’t Stoudemire look scared? Didn’t it look as if he wanted his mama’s tit to suck on again?

  Good. Prick.

  *

  But that wasn’t all. The nurses and nursettes wrestled Rome back into position and reattached the drip and the heart monitor and, fuck, so many wires. Stoudemire watched from behind them, arms folded, glaring. But once Rome was settled and the medical posse gone, Stoudemire picked up right where he’d left off.

  About the mangled motorcycle they had found, the witness reports about the Cadillac, the man and woman shooting at the biker. The Caddy found abandoned behind a Wendy’s, the car traced to DeVaughn Rose, the dead salesmen at the car lot next door, presumably killed by DeVaughn. The missing Tiburon. The fire at the home of Lafitte’s step-parents. Lafitte’s escape. DeVaughn’s brazen car rental with his own credit card only hours after killing those car salesmen.

  One thing Rome had noticed, though, was in Stoudemire’s story, he still wasn’t on the scene. It was all second-hand, or reconstructed via evidence. How late was he to this party?

  Stoudemire took a breath, then said, “So, the shootout.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Blistered. Burning. Muscles cut ragged by a blade. Chest tight. Jaw tight. Left arm in his lap, throbbing. Goosebumps. Shaking.

  Lafitte hit the ramp up the parking garage. Still in the Armada. So far, no cops. Might as well stick with it, because the fat kid, calling himself Lo-Wider, for fuck’s sake, was a bitch to move, and he’d finally either calmed down or gone into shock. Quiet. Quiet was better. But before he had gone mute, he’d called DeVaughn and set up a meet. Didn’t even matter if he had tipped off DeVaughn about having Lafitte with him. Must have been anticipating it anyway. Meeting in a parking garage. Of course.

  Lafitte made the loops up to the third level, then slowed down. He saw BGM bangers sitting in their rides, slouched. Some more standing between cars, staring him down. Getting ready for the ambush. But that was not what DeVaughn wanted. He wanted this to be one-on-one. So they’d sit and watch, but ain’t one of them would shoot first.

  He turned to the passenger seat. He had the cop’s gun. He had the little knife the little banger had stuck in him. He checked the glove compartment. Empty. So, yeah, one gun and a useless knife.

  He lifted the gun, kept it low so the bangers outside couldn’t see what he was doing. Goddamn, wrapping his taped-up hand around the grip was excruciating. He put all he had into curling his fingers, squeezed the trigger to the last possible millimeter before letting go. He dropped the magazine. Full. He sighed. This gun, fifteen rounds? Or fifteen plus one? He pulled back the slide—one in the chamber. Well...do the math.

  “Hey, fat kid,” he said.

  Nothing but breathing from the backseat.

  “Hey, I said.” Lafitte reached back, slapped Lo-Wider’s haunch. “You still with us?”

  “Leave me alone, you piece of shit!”

  “Good. So here’s what’s up. I’m going to kill your boss in a few minutes.
I might get shot a lot while I do it. I think it’s probably a good idea for you to stay down until it gets quiet. Then you can call for an ambulance.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Or that. You can say and do what you want. I kind of don’t care.”

  He eased the Armada around the corner and found DeVaughn’s car, parked across three spots, him sitting there, window down and his gun arm out. Next to him, his girlfriend, grinning, practically witchlike. The more sinister she looked, the more attractive she was. Lafitte caught the shadows and corner-eye movements from more BGMs directly to his right, two of them in a Kia Soul. Was pretty sure he heard bass. Every ambush needed a soundtrack.

  He stared at DeVaughn. DeVaughn stared back. The witch stared, too, and her grin turned into a smile, and then a laugh. She lifted her hands to show off her pistol, one much too large for her. But he wouldn’t underestimate her. God no, he wouldn’t underestimate anyone ever again. You never could tell.

  So was this going to be a show? DeVaughn taking his time? Did he have a speech prepared? Maybe a photo of his brother to shove in Lafitte’s face? Did he have a schedule for how this was going to work?

  Fuck it.

  Lafitte got out of the Armada, walked around the front of it towards the Kia Soul, lifted his gun and unloaded on both the bangers. The windshield exploded after the third or fourth shot and both those fuckers were dead and Lafitte dove inside through the hole he’d blasted right before the others started unloading on him.

  He covered his head on the laps of the dead men while the bullets thumped into the engine block or tore through the backseat and back window. He scrabbled around feeling for the dead men’s guns until he got hold of a Glock handle and tried to count back how many shots he’d blown through with his own. Seven. Yep, seven. He visualized it. Seven shots. Waited for a break in the fire, then hopped through to the backseat right before another wave started. He opened the back passenger door, kicked it until it wedged into the next car. He watched bullets take out the window and most of the plastic molding. He crept to the other side, slipped the door open more slowly, and snaked out onto the pavement and ran along the back of the row before they even figured out what had happened.